


Freedom Soon Will Come

by lanyon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU: Canon divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Egalmoth, Glorfindel and Ecthelion take the road less traveled and Vairë the Weaver drops a stitch and Arda unravels differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom Soon Will Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aeärwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ae%C3%A4rwen/gifts).



> +Title from Leonard Cohen's _The Partisan_  
>  +There are a few people I must thank for rather obviously inspiring this: Chelle and Martha, always, as well as Tehta, whose [Theban Band of Gondolin](http://archiveofourown.org/series/37570) is a masterpiece and this is a poor, poor homage.  
> +The prompt was for a Gondolin pairing and child Maeglin and this is the AU that transpired. I hope you enjoy it.

It is known, how Arda unravelled, like a thread on the hem of a travel-worn cloak. It is not known how Arda might otherwise have been, had Vairë dropped a stitch or had that season’s colours been muted greys instead of incendiary oranges. It is not a pleasant thought to know that one’s decisions are known ahead of time even if the Valar and Valier are absent parents.

“I do not like the thought,” says Glorfindel. “Skipping to the end of the book, as it were.”

“They say that Artanis is fond,” says Ecthelion. He pokes at their small fire and wraps his cloak tighter around himself. Glorfindel wishes he was that cloak but Egalmoth is here. 

They have not seen Gondolin for years. They are probably presumed dead but they decided, in a fit of heroism, that they could not return to Gondolin without the Lady Aredhel. 

(It is not that they have solely been searching for Aredhel. There have been adventures for these warriors three and they have traveled far and wide, keeping their identity secret as best they can.)

“She won’t even appreciate it,” says Egalmoth. 

“I don’t care,” says Ecthelion. “I’ll throw her over my shoulders and carry her all the way back, if needs be.”

Glorfindel wishes that Ecthelion would do that to him. He is quite strong enough to do so. In these past years, of living rough and living dangerously, there is not a hint of softness to any of them. They are still those noble lords of Gondolin but they have edges that are sharp like Orcrist, hanging by Ecthelion’s belt. Glorfindel wishes he was hanging by Ecthelion’s belt-

He shakes his head to clear it and stands up abruptly. Both Egalmoth and Ecthelion stare at him. 

“The perimeter,” he says. “I - I am scouting it.”

“It’s a big forest,” Egalmoth says. 

“You’re right,” says Ecthelion. “That’s a lot of scouting. I’ll come with you. Egalmoth, keep the fire in.” 

It is the same great pantomime as before; when they are too far away to hear Egalmoth’s breathing and the crackling of the fire, they walk for another mile, and then Ecthelion presses Glorfindel against a tree that looks unlikely to object and they kiss until they are mindless with it. 

Egalmoth knows. There can be no doubt about that, not when Glorfindel traipses back after Ecthelion and their mouths are red and swollen and slick with each other.

(There has never been any doubt about that, not when Glorfindel and Ecthelion were each other’s shadow on the Ice and not when they clasped hands at the first rising of Arien, ferocious and golden.)

“We could -” says Egalmoth, after a while (and after a pointed moment of looking anywhere but at his companions. Egalmoth is not a jealous fellow but it has been a lonely year for him in some regards.)

“No,” says Ecthelion, with his customary and deceptive mildness. “If we involve Celegorm, we will lose control of the situation.”

“What control?” asks Glorfindel.

“What situation?” asks Egalmoth. “There is no situation. There is no Aredhel.”

“If we tell him that his favourite cousin has disappeared, we might consider ourselves lucky if he only guts us before attempting to find her and carry her away.”

“He would blame us,” says Glorfindel, thoughtfully. He is unsure of Celegorm. Their paths have crossed on a number of occasions and he has never enjoyed the way Celegorm has looked at them.

“As will the King, if we return without her.”

“Maybe he thinks we have all run away to join a traveling carnival,” says Glorfindel and he smiles, unknowingly beguiling, as he remembers a troupe of Telerin contortionists and acrobats who graced Tirion with their presence when he was a child. 

“He might believe it of you, Lord Flower,” says Egalmoth, not unkindly. “Or even of me, but perhaps not of Ecthelion.”

“He is more flexible than you might think, given his size,” says Glorfindel, unthinking.

After a brief and unutterably awkward silence, Egalmoth clears his throat. “I think we should go home.” He holds up a hand. ”No, I know. We must be gentlemen about this.” His cheeks go red and Glorfindel stares at him with rapt wonder, knowing with sudden certainty that Egalmoth is thinking of the very ungentlemanly feats Glorfindel and Ecthelion perform together. “But at some point, Gondolin will need us more than the possibility of the King’s sister being alive.”

“He may wish us thrown off Caragdûr, nonetheless. They have done quite well without us, I am sure,” says Ecthelion and Glorfindel knows that it hurts him even to contemplate such a thing, when Ecthelion is so very much part of Gondolin. There have been no scouts, no word from Gondolin at all. It is a depressing thought.

“Come now!” he says. “Let’s not be so miserable. I have no doubt that Gondolin misses us all, deeply. I think that Egalmoth is right. We should return with the Gates of Summer.” He tries to smile, with encouragement, if nothing else. “Nothing bad comes with the Gates of Summer. They will see us as returning heroes, at best, and unfortunate souls, at worst.”

“It’s true,” says Egalmoth. “Years of penance in these woods is more than enough.”

“Who are _you_?” pipes up a voice.

All three Gondolindrim stand and turn and point their swords at a small child who does not flinch from bright steel.

“Is it a Dwarf?” asks Egalmoth. 

“I am _not_ a Dwarf,” says the child in perfect Quenya, though his hair is bedraggled and his face is covered in soot and grim. He draws himself up to his full height, which is somewhere near Ecthelion’s mid-thigh. “I am Lómion Írission and this is my mother’s kingdom.”

Glorfindel looks at Ecthelion who is staring at the child. 

“Your mother is the very woman we seek,” says Ecthelion. “We are her friends.”

The child scowls. “My mother has no friends,” he says. “Not since my father died.”

“We are her sworn lords,” says Glorfindel. It seems more truthful, if not quite the truth of it. 

Lómion likes the sound of that. “Then come,” he says. “I hope you have brought her gifts. No one ever brings her gifts, although the _Casári_ have told me that they are working on a treasure that will put all the caves of Menegroth to shame.”

“We have brought ourselves,” says Egalmoth. “Though we are not much to look at.”

Lómion looks up at him. “You are all very tall. I think she will like that.”

They fall into step behind the child and they are brought to a house which is unseemingly small, by the standards of a Noldorin princess. Aredhel comes out, her hands on her hips, in white-armed glory, wearing glittering armour over a silver and cream dress.

“Well,” she says. “Did my brother send you to look for me?”

“We have not stopped looking since we lost you, Lady,” says Glorfindel, inclining his head.

There is a pause and he risks raising his eyes. She looks faintly confused. 

“I hope you did not think that I would wither without men to guide me.”

“No,” says Ecthelion, although he looks bewildered and clearly cannot help glancing at Lómion, who is sitting at a table with a Dwarf-lady. She is polishing the silverware.

Glorfindel shrugs. “I know I would, Lady.” He looks at Ecthelion, who looks back with red-cheeked surprise. “But it is no mystery that you are stronger than most.”

“We wish you to return with us,” says Egalmoth. “I think -” He pauses but he does not falter. “I think that your niece needs you, if not the rest of Gondolin.”

“But I have a home here,” says Aredhel. “Where I am free.”

“We have been free for years,” says Glorfindel. “But it is not home.”

“Will you return to Gondolin without me?” asks Aredhel. 

Glorfindel closes his mouth and sways closer to Ecthelion. They look to Egalmoth, who lets out a soft sigh.

“If you send us, we will go,” he says. “But we would rather stay. You are short of guards with an armspan.”

“You might be my little army,” says Aredhel and she looks gleeful before frowning. “My brother must miss you.”

“Not as much as he misses you, Lady,” says Glorfindel. 

“When was the last time you slept in a bed?” she asks, rather suddenly. 

“Eighteen-months ago,” says Egalmoth, promptly. He would remember, Glorfindel supposes. 

“Then sleep,” says Aredhel. “Bes will show you to the sleeping quarters.” It’s clear they’re being dismissed and Aredhel looks troubled. They have given her a great deal to think about, without a doubt. She smiles suddenly. “And Bes? It’s said that the Lord of the Fountain and the Lord of the Golden Flower are used to sharing confined quarters. Perhaps the east guest room?”

Glorfindel knows he is blushing and he cannot look at Ecthelion, though he knows that his jaw must be clenched and there will be a spread of pink across his cheekbones. 

The house is bigger than Glorfindel had anticipated. 

“Come,” he says, holding his hand to Ecthelion when the door is closed behind them. “I’ve not had the opportunity to look at you properly in months. I think Egalmoth gets uncomfortable when I want to drink you in.”

“Do you think she will return with us?” asks Ecthelion. 

“I think she will have a troubled night thinking on it,” says Glorfindel. “But she is alive and, more importantly, so are we.”

Finally, Ecthelion takes Glorfindel’s hand and they undress with leisure that they have not had since they left Gondolin (and, even there, their nights together were not frequent, for fear of censure). They kiss and they touch and Glorfindel’s fingertips skate down Ecthelion’s abdomen and they both quiver together. Ecthelion’s gasps are musical and they are music and Glorfindel sucks lightly on Ecthelion’s thumb, the musician’s calluses long since worn away into the rough hands of a warrior. 

Glorfindel wants to take Ecthelion home, back to Gondolin where he will be a musician again, and a great leader. Ecthelion pushes Glorfindel onto his back and smiles down at him and they move together and this is home, and this is freedom, and Glorfindel is certain, if he skips to the end, that they will return to Gondolin, with the Gates of Summer, when nothing bad can happen.


End file.
